Katana and Glaidus
by melcon
Summary: Karou, daughter of a high-ranking military commander, finds herself in the Colosseum as a gladiator fighting for the lives of Christians condemned to die. Yet she is not alone: a red-headed warrior from a distant country fights with and for her.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: The following story is part **_**Rurouni Kenshin**_**, part **_**Gladiator**_**, and part my own twisted imagination. Swooping liberties have been taken with time order, as I highly doubt Japan had any trade or connection with Rome during the 2****nd**** century AD, but it all works somehow. For all you samurai fans, know that Kenshin shows up in Chapter 3. The final chapter or two is not yet completed and still being fleshed out, so any comments/suggestions/criticisms are much welcome!**

_My name is Gladiator. _

I sat in the filthy cell, watching as rotting straw poked my clothing and rubbed itself uncomfortably against my legs. Around me were the smells of sweat, urine, dung, and the acrid scent of terror. The tiny cell I shared with about twenty others was overcrowded: a motley collection of old men, young men, women of various ages, and a scattering of children were in various poses around the small area. Most sat on the ground, heads bowed in prayer. One young man paced back and forth angrily, fists clenched. A few children cried and clung to their mothers, and the one baby kept up an almighty bellow that his stunned-looking mother could not silence. Clinging to the bars of the cell was a scrawny man of interminableness age; fear was sending his entire body shaking, and he yelled at every person who walked by, "I'm not a Christian! I'm a good Roman citizen, loyal to the Emperor! I'm not guilty!" He had done this ever since we had been arrested the other night, and I was extremely close to slapping him and telling him to shut up. Protesting his innocence would do nothing; we were all going to die.

Sighing, I tried to relax on the ground, ignoring the sticky skin of the woman next to me who was uncomfortably pressed up against my right side. There were so many of us in the small cell that we were practically stacked on top of each other, and the air was hot and humid. Dread hung in the air as heavy as moisture: tomorrow morning, we would face the Colosseum and whatever horrors the Emperor had in store for us.

From the elegant white-marbled halls of my father to a disgusting prison cell awaiting execution was a long way for the daughter of a Roman _tribunus_ to fall. My father, Kashim Mercelus, had been a man whose ambitions and talents were boundless. Born into a wealthy Roman family, he had advanced quickly through the Roman military, gaining recognition and additional wealth for his skills as a commander and prowess on the battlefield. His soldiers practically worshiped him, and Rome had flung accolades and rank on him liberally.

He had married my mother, celebrated as one of the most beautiful women in Rome, and bought her a gorgeous house, hoping to soon fill it with children. Yet, for some reason, this hope was dashed time and time again as my mother miscarried or bore children who did not live long. I was the result of my mother's fourth attempted pregnancy, and I came out of the womb blue in the face from the cord wrapped around my neck. The midwife did not think I would live and, being Roman, she suggested that I be cast out, the usual fate for less-than-perfect Roman children or unwanted girls. My father nearly strangled the woman; instead, he tore me from her arms and blew into my feeble lungs until I gasped and begin to breathe on my own. Whenever my father told the story of my birth (as he often did), he would end it by teasing me that I was too stubborn to die, a proclamation that proved ominously true.

I was the only living child of my parents. After me were two more miscarriages and one more stillbirth. My father could have cast my mother out and found himself another wife, one able to bear children, but he would not entertain the thought – he was too much in love with her. When I was 10, my mother died giving birth to what would have been her eighth child, a little boy that did not live much longer than his mother. Heavens knows what agony my father had undergone through his love of this woman, enduring multiple dead children and finally a dead wife, but he bore his pain with the stoicism of a Roman soldier.

As a girl, I could have been ignored by my father: women were accounted of little worth in Roman culture. However, his love for me was no less than the love he bore for my mother, and he lavished all attention and care on me that he would a prized son. It was from my father that I acquired an education that few Roman girls were privy to: politics, math, science, history, and philosophy were my early childhood companions. In addition to his teaching, my father hired tutors for me, dour men that no doubt considered teaching a mere girl greatly below them, but my father had the knack of finding particularly impoverished tutors and paying them excellent wages, so they did not grumble too loudly. One in particular developed a grudging affection for me, and I for him. I was nearly inconsolable when a fever took him from me.

But one thing I did not learn from my tutors was the way of the sword. It started when I was very young. I used to sneak into the courtyard and watch my father practice his sword skills, and, in the manner of children, I begin imitating him with the aid of a small stick I found. My father thought my antics were amusing and made me a child-sized wooden practice sword so I could mock-spar with him. It was purely play at first, but my father quickly discovered that I had a natural aptitude for the sword, and he soon began teaching me in earnest. My mother was appalled that my father was doing such a thing, protesting that I would never find a husband, particularly if I could beat him at sword play, but my father simply laughed, proclaiming that he would find me a warrior husband worthy of so great a prize. In fact, he would tease me, he would only allow me to marry if my intended husband could beat me in combat. Only then would he know a man was deserving of my hand in marriage.

Alas, it was not to be. In the grief of so many children dead and a wife torn from his side, my father gradually turned to Christianity, a strange new religion that had swept through Rome like water from a broken aqueduct. The man responsible for this new faith, Jesus of Nazareth, had been tried by Roman court as a rebel and executed at Golgotha, the place where the particularly notorious criminals met their gruesome death. As a young man, my father had been in command of the soldiers responsible for Jesus' execution, and the event had profoundly moved him. He did not often speak about it, but I knew it ate at his heart. When Mother died, my father began secretly meeting with a group of Christians that surreptitiously met in houses to study their forbidden text and listen to their leaders speak about Jesus.

I was unaware of this until one day when I was out in the marketplace with my father. A young man bumped into him, apologized profusely, then, almost too quick to catch, slipped a message into my father's palm. I saw him do so and later on caught a glimpse of my father reading it before casually dropping it into a small fire as he passed by a vendor selling roasted meat. By a strange twist of fate, a gust of wind caught the missive and sent it blowing in the wind. My hand seized upon it and stuffed it inside my chiton without my father noticing.

Back at home, I opened the secret message and was shocked at what I found.

_Tonight, midnight at Paellala's._

_Aurelus_

But it was not the message so much as the symbol at the end that astonished me: it was a simple sketching of a fish. I knew that this symbol was used by Christians to communicate with each other. Here was irrefutable evidence that my father, the most upright and loyal of Rome's citizens, was consorting with rebels.

I was still staring blankly at the message when my father walked into my room. An ugly fight, the first we had ever had, ensued. He accused me of being a meddling, prying daughter with no respect for her father's privacy. I accused him of being disloyal to Rome and going back against our gods. When we had shouted ourselves hoarse, I demanded that he take me to this meeting to see what Christianity was all about. He adamantly refused at first, but eventually relented when I pointed out to him that should he be accused of fraternizing with Christians, my reputation and future would be destroyed regardless of whether or not I had any knowledge of him doing so. Whole families had been wiped out because one member had become a follower of Christianity. Roman rule decreed that if one family member was guilty, the entire family was guilty. Were my father discovered at this meeting, I was just as dead sitting at home innocent of knowledge as I would be at his side.

Eventually, through my practical argument, my father grudgingly relented, grumbling that he wished he had never taken it into his head to teach me rhetoric and logic. Instead, he and I left the house silently that night, dressed in commoners' clothing and slipping through the shadows like spies. I found the danger and subterfuge exhilarating and was wickedly excited to be part of something so risky.

The meeting itself was nothing like I had imagined: the people crowding into the tiny room seemed to shine with an inner light of happiness and strength. Their words and messages were unlike anything I had ever heard before, and I soon realized what had drawn my grieving father to them. That meeting was one of many I attended with my father, and our knowledge of the Christian God and his son Jesus grew.

All changed one fatal day. Somehow, our secret got out: my father was arrested and brought before the Roman Senate on charges of heresy and disloyalty to Rome. Denied the merciful death of beheading that a Roman citizen should have been granted, he was crucified instead. Being his daughter, I was also arrested and thrown in prison with other Christians to await our turn in the Colosseum. It wasn't a long wait; tomorrow we would face certain, painful death.

The night wore on. It was impossible to sleep with the heat and stench and noise of soldiers trampling in and out of the hallways. The fear-wracked man in our cell finally ceased his shouting and collapsed in a pile of misery, whimpering like a whipped cur. I sat with my left side pressed up against the bars of the cell, turning over all the events in my 17 years so far. At my age, I should have been married to a fine Roman man and with children. Instead, I was inside a stinking cell waiting to die.

Eventually a cramp in my leg caused me to stand up, and I turned around. Against the wall outside our cell was a wooden storage box that had been shoved up against the wall but not quite flush with it. A single torch was fastened on the wall above the box, and it cast enough light for me to see that something gleamed in the dark gap between the box and the wall. Curious, I bent down and gingerly poked my finger into the gap to see what it was. My fingers closed upon metal and as I pulled back, a sheathed _glaidus_ emerged. Some soldier must have placed the sword on the box, and it must have fallen in the gap between the box and the wall.

Praying desperately that no guard would surprise me, I pulled the glaidus free and began working it through the bars of the cell. The torch outside our cell fitfully illuminated what I was doing, but the sounds of other prisons and the harsh yells of the guards covered up any sound, and I worked undetected; eventually I maneuvered it into the cell.

The others in the cell (the ones who were awake) noticed my actions, and there was a collective gasp when I pulled the glaidus into the cell. "Quiet," I said in an undertone. Placing the sword on the ground, I laid my leg on top of it, covering it from prying guards' eyes.

"What are you going to do with it?" said the young man who had paced constantly all evening.

"I am Karou Mercelus, daughter of the Tribunus Mercelus and I do not intent to die tomorrow nor to let any of you die," I responded coldly.

The pacing man stopped. "You are going to fight?" Others looked at me blankly, a few with the faintest glimmers of hope in their eyes.

"Yes," I said.

The young man frowned, then said, "That's not right that you should fight for us. Let me have the glaidus."

"No," I responded.

"Let me have it," he said with more heat and force. "You're a woman, what do you know about fighting?"

"Quiet, you fool, do you want to bring the guards?" I snapped, then looked at him pointedly. "I have trained with the sword since I was able to walk. What do _you_ know about sword fighting?"

He stopped, bit his lip, and looked furious. Trying to mollify him, I said, "It is likely that we will face armed gladiators out there. The first one I kill, you take his sword. Help me fight."

The anger left his eyes and he nodded. That seemed to placate him, but I was not convinced he would be of any assistance. Truth be know, I had zero confidence that the glaidus would do me anything but prolong my inevitable death and the deaths of the people around me. But the daughter of Kamiya Mercelus did not give up easily. I would make the Romans pay and pay dearly for the death of my father.

Glossary

**Chiton: Roman clothing (similar to a toga) primarily worn by women.**

**Glaidus: Roman short sword**

**Tribunus: High-ranking Roman military commander **


	2. Chapter 2

Morning came all too quickly. Few people in the cell had slept that night, and as the stirring of the guards warned us that our death day had dawned, many prisoners in the cells around us became highly agitated. Cries, sobs, and shrieks of anger emanated from some of them while others were stoic. A few even bore happy expressions and whispered to each other that they would soon see the face of Christ. I hadn't fully embraced Christianity and was consequently less-than-thrilled about encountering someone I was not ready to uplift as my god just yet. Instead, I was focused on the fight ahead of me.

The glaidus was strapped to my leg via a strip of ribbon I had taken from my hair and my clothing covered it up, so I knew I could sneak the sword into the arena undetected. I had made some modifications to the simple Roman chiton I was wearing to make it more battle-suitable by pulling fabric up above the belt so that the hemline was shortened and tightening up the sleeves so that my arms were unencumbered. I had no armor and no shield, so I hoped fervently that there would be no bowmen facing us in the arena.

Throughout the entire night, I had been wracking my brains to think of some sort of strategy that I could use to try to keep as few people in my cell as possible from dying: I didn't want to die and I did not want the people with me to die either. The secret meetings I had attended with my father quickly showed me that there was nothing in Christianity that represented a threat to Rome: it was all about being a honest, moral person and living a life above reproach. The old Roman values preached exactly that, and I had steadily grown more and more appalled at how Roman officials hunted down and killed Christians for sport. The trumped-up charges my father was executed under only inflamed my hatred of Rome and determination not to go out without a fight or let these people die. I felt a sense of duty towards them and determination that they would have at least one champion and their deaths would not be wholly in vain.

As the people in my cell woke up, many of them began praying and singing songs that I recognized, preparing to meet their deaths. I tried to pray in my head, but my thoughts were too scattered and anxious for it.

Soon, too soon, the guards opened our door and began jostling us out in the hallway, laughing coarsely and talking gleefully about what terrible things were in store for us. The frightened man in our cell collapsed into a pile of quivering hysteria and broke into a strange fit of maniacal laughter; a guard hoisted him to his feet and dragged him along kicking and screaming. The young man who had wanted my sword the night before strode at my side conspiratorially, eyes darting around as if to look for another glaidus.

Our group shuffled our way through the prison as the guards roughly shoved us forward, cursing us to make us hurry. Too soon we were standing behind the doors that opened into the arena and could hear the noise of the crowd anxiously awaiting our blood. As we stood and waited for the doors to creak open, I looked down and saw a good-sized rock at my feet. Glancing at the doors in front of me, I calculated frantically. A plan formed in my mind hazily.

Quietly to the people around me, I said, "When we get out into the arena, immediately run to the right and get behind the door. Try to hold the door open and use it as a shield."

There were puzzled glances, then numb nods. Someone muttered, "What's the point?"

"Because these Romans want a show. I intend to give them one," I breathed back.

The doors finally creaked open and the guards prodded us into the dusty arena to the deafening roar of the crowds. As we passed through the gates, I stumbled forward towards one of the doors as if I had lost my balance. As I tumbled, I shoved the rock into the hinge on the door, praying that it would jam the door open. A guard grabbed me and threw me forward, and we all stumbled into the arena to the sounds of cheers and coarse insults.

As directed, my fellow captives walked out the door, then immediately raced to the right and crowded behind the door. Uproarious laughter filled the arena, and jeers and catcalls rocketed around the crowd. No doubt the masses thought that we were simply hiding and trying to stave off the inevitable. As the men of our group held the door close to the small group hiding between the wall and the door, another door opened and four armed gladiators came marching out. Seeing our group behind the door, they made a beeline for us.

In the bustle and commotion, I quickly I unstrapped the glaidus from my leg and unsheathed it, dropping the sheath to the ground. My companion-at-arms quickly seized it and held it like a sword, grim determination on his face. I motioned to him to hide it behind him it as I was hiding my sword. The element of surprise was the only thing I had available, and it just might be enough to make a difference.

As the gladiators raced towards us, the guards began hauling back on the door, trying to close it. The people behind the door held on to it and the rock I had shoved in the hinge apparently was doing some good because the door creaked and groaned, but did not move. Time seemed to slow, and I could feel the blood rushing in my veins. The closest gladiator reached me and I watched as if in slow motion him lift his sword hand to strike me. I waited, tense, until the exact right moment in time and cut upwards, slicing through the part on his arm that was uncovered by armor.

His arm flew through the air in a colorful spurt of blood as he screamed and staggered away from me. A second gladiator, hot on the heels of the first, froze for one brief, fatal moment, enough to give me time to stab my sword through an exposed portion of neck.

My fellow comrade had dropped the sheath in his hand and had picked up a sword of the second gladiator who now lay on the ground writhing from blood loss. The second two gladiators honed in on us and divided us up evenly. The one that attacked me was good, quite good, and it seemed as if hours passed before one of his blocks failed and I drove my sword through an exposed section in his chest armor, piercing his heart and sending him to the ground.

Turning around quickly, I saw that the last gladiator had killed the brave young man who stood besides me and was coming back to finish me off. His fight with the other man must have inflated his ego because his attack was wide open, and I killed him almost instantly.

Gasping for air, I spun around in a circle, looking for the next attacker. But there was no one else in the arena and the crowds had erupted with wild cheers. As I frantically glanced up, I saw many thumbs pointing upward and heard the chant of the crowds "Live! Live! Live!"

Turning around, I looked back at the small group huddled behind the door. A quick glance told me that the only casualty was the brave young man who had wanted to fight at my side: the others were afraid, but unhurt. Motioning them to stay behind the door, I was suddenly seized with the blinding thought of _What happens next?_

The crowd continued to cheer and in order to egg them on, I stabbed my glaidus into the air and roared as loudly as I could. The crowd redoubled its cheering, and many started throwing flowers down into the arena. Chaos reigned for many minutes as I waited breathlessly to see what would happen next.

The answer came in the form of a door opening and a mounted calvary coming towards me. On the back of a stunning white horse was a man that no person in Rome failed to recognize: Lucius Aurelius Commodus Antoninus. Emperor of Rome. Tyrant. The one who ordered my father's execution.

As the horsemen made their way towards me, my hand involuntarily gripped the sword. If luck served, Commodus would come close enough that I could kill him and avenge my father's death. All it would take was a lucky stroke or well-placed throw of the sword,and my father's death would be avenged and Rome saved from the hands of a tyrant.

But as I watched my foe approach me, the small group behind the door caught my attention – in the tense, thick air, the baby gave a sudden gurgle of laughter, happy and carefree, that melted my resolve. If I was to seek my revenge today, the people I was guarding were sure to die. After I had fought so hard to save them, I could not abandon them to their fate in order to seek my own selfish revenge. Revenge would wait.

The Emperor approached me, and I grudgingly bowed my head in a sullen courtesy. He smiled, "Rise, rise up, young _virago_. I don't think we have ever seen anything like you in my arena." I lifted my head and met his smile with rebellious eyes. "What is your name?" he asked.

I paused for a moment, then said, "My name is Gladiator."

Commodus' eyebrow quirked in surprise, then he gave a laugh. "A female gladiator? That is something you don't see every day!" He looked me over with a practiced eye. "I think the crowds will pay dearly to see a woman fight. Especially one as lovely as you."

"I will fight for you," I said slowly. "But I have my price."

Commodus' face crinkled, a bit taken aback by my boldness. I continued. Pointing at the people still hiding behind the door, I said, "They go free. Every Christian I fight for and win goes free. That is my price."

Commodus laughed, the full, hearty laugh of a man filled with his own strength and ego. He was a powerful man, full in the flush of youth and power. Obsessed with the Colosseum, he had been known to fight as a gladiator in the arena himself. Looking at his broad shoulders and thick arms, I realized that, Emperor or not, he would be a difficult opponent.

Waving his hand, he said, "Agreed. Fight for your own freedom or the freedom of other people, I care not, as long as it puts on a good show." Turning to the guards at his side, he pointed to the people behind the door. "Release them."

"I will watch them walk out of the Colosseum alive or we have no bargain," I demanded, adrenaline making me reckless.

Commodus frowned and for a moment I thought I had overstepped my luck. But the frown was replaced by an impatient shrug, "Fine, fine." Turning to the crowds, who had grown quiet out of respect for the emperor, Commodus flashed a thumbs-up. Loud cheers exploded around the arena as myself and my fellow captives were lead away.

Outside the arena, the gigantic doors pulled back, exposing the teeming streets of Rome. With that, the hysterical man from our group broke free of us and raced into the crowd. Angrily I watched him go, thinking how unfair it was that he had lived and my fighting companion had died. The others looked at me in bewilderment. I motioned to them, "Go. Live."

One of the elders put his hand on my shoulder, "Lady Karou, are you sure this is a wise idea? We will all face our maker one day; do not throw away your young life to be a gladiator."

"I am sure," I said. "Go in peace."

The elder nodded, and the small knot of Christians disappeared into the teeming crowd. I watched anxiously, but I did not see any evidence that they were being tailed by Roman soldiers, and I hope feverantly that they would all reach their homes safely.

When they were gone, I turned back to the soldiers at my side and resolutely faced the imposing gates, the doorway to the new life I had set for myself.

**Glossary**

**Virago: female warrior**


	3. Chapter 3

Word quickly spread that a female, a _gladiatrix_, had joined the ranks of the gladiators. One thing I had not anticipated was the inexcusably vile behavior of my fellow fighters. From the moment I walked into the _ludus,_ I was assaulted by a continual barrage of filthy comments, insinuations, threats, and propositions. I tried to ignore them as best I could, but the training uniform I was issued (which was no different than the ones them men wore) did not help the situation; it left my legs bare to the knee, and the skirt flapped with my motions, exposing even more leg to the leering delight of the other gladiators. Calling upon all the mental training my father had instilled in me, I tried to pour everything in me into physical training and ignore the comments from the others. My life depended upon my skill with the blade, and the only person I had ever fought with was my father. I had much to learn.

The first day of training was hard and brutal, earning me a collection of bruises that turned colorful and a splitting headache along with a finger I was sure was broken. As I sparred with the training master, my fellow gladiators watched my progress and added a constant stream of disgusting commentary regarding my various physical attributes and the carnal things they wanted to do to me. I tried as best I could to drown this out, but it kept breaking through my concentration and earning me extra knocks.

After a few hours of this, suddenly I became aware that the barrage of abuse had stopped and the other gladiators had fallen silent. A new gladiator had joined us – a small, slight-looking man with a heavy mane of brilliant red hair caught in a thick ponytail at his neck. His clothing was unlike anything I had ever seen before. He wore what looked like a divided white skirt pleated at the belt over a pink tunic with volumous sleeves. No armor covered his small frame, and the sword at his side was long and slightly curved.

Although he was diminutive and downright odd-looking, there was an aura of overwhelming strength and calm about him. The gladiators surrounding him had ceased their foul remarks and looked slightly abashed; he was glaring at them all with eyes that gleamed golden in the sun. When he turned his gaze to me, I thought fleetingly that I had never met such a dangerous man before in my life. There was something fierce and overwhelmingly powerful about him, despite his small frame. I was also aware that behind the red-haired gladiator were three archers, arrows hanging loose on their bows if they expected to have to shoot something immediately.

Nothing more was said. I finished my training rotation with the training master and was released from duty for the day. The eyes of the strange gladiator followed me as I walked away to join the others for dinner.

The dinner line was full of men, and the gladiators began on their comments to me, as if their crude insinuations would attract my attention. I tried to block it out and took my bowl down to the farthest seat in order to escape them. Within moments, the red-haired gladiator appeared at my side as if he had apparatus out of thin air. Not looking at me, he sat down a few paces to my right and lifted the bowl to his lips.

"They will not harm you," he said quietly. I looked at him quizzically. "Do not be afraid. No gladiator will touch you here."

"Who are you?" I said back.

"Battousai. They called me Battousai in my home country."

_Battousai_! All of Rome knew his name and said that there had never been a gladiator to match him. I had heard tales of his feats in the Colesseum. He was known to be a foreigner from some distant land and was famous for his habit of fighting without amour or a shield. Only the strange curved sword and his remarkable skills kept him safe.

"Karou. Karou Mercelus," I replied.

"Karou-dono, it is a honor to meet you," Battousai replied politely, bowing his head.

Over my shoulder, I saw the same three archers standing not far away from Battousai, observing him with blank, implacable faces. Quizzically, I asked Battousai, "Why are those archers there?"

"Because I am known to be dangerous with the blade and I nearly escaped not long ago." he replied. "Swords I can fight against, but arrows are a little harder to dodge. The archers are there to ensure that I continue to fatten the pockets of those profiting from the Colesseum." There were undertones of anger in his voice when he said the last sentence.

"How did you end up as a gladiator?" I questioned, somewhat hesitantly.

He was silent for a moment, then said darkly, "This one was a warrior of his people who, in the foolish optimism of youth, let himself be used as a pawn in the hands of powerful men. Unfortunately he eventually outlived his usefulness yet was too quick with the blade to be conveniently assassinated. Instead, his superiors tricked him, and this one was sold into captivity to Roman slave traders who dealt specially in finding gladiators."

I shivered slightly as he said this, wondering what it must have been like to have been betrayed by the ones you trusted. I also wondered at him slipping into the 3rd person and his curious use of "this one".

Trying to lighten the mood, I said, "You speak Latin well." Indeed he did; there was an accent to his voice, and I could tell that he struggled a bit to pronounce his l's and r's, but on the whole I understood him very well.

The barest glimmer of a smile tugged at his lips. "Three years of being yelled at in a foreign tongue tends to facilitate language learning, that it does, although," his smile widened a fraction, "this one fears he knows more dirty words than anything else."

Laughing slightly, I said, "No, you speak Latin very well."

"Thank you, Karou-dono," he replied, then the smile faded. "I had a friend, a fellow gladiator, who was well-educated, and he was as brutal about teaching me to speak correct Latin as he was about sparring with me. It is him I have to thank."

There was a sadness about his last remark that made me stop the question on my lips. From his expression, it seemed obvious that questioning Battousai about the whereabouts of his friend would bring him nothing but pain. Instead, I said nothing, and we both sunk into a meditative silence, eating quietly and thinking of nothing much. In the past three days, I had lost my father, my home, my status in society, and was now facing a very short lifespan. Despite the chain of events, I was ravenous with hunger. The food we gladiators were fed was plain but nourishing, and the portions were generous: well-fed gladiators fought better and put on a better show.

Eventually the slaves began taking empty bowls from the gladiators. I stood and stretched, wincing at the soreness in my muscles and the aching of my finger. Flexing it experimentally, I determined that it was not broken: cracked maybe, but the bone had not shattered. The training master had been just as brutal towards me as he had been towards the other gladiators, and I was quickly realizing how much I had to learn if I was to survive the arena and eventually win my freedom.

Evening was beginning to fall. From the relaxed positions of the other gladiators, I gathered that there was some social time after dinner, and many of them began to cluster in groups to tell coarse stories or gamble. Guards watched them with blank faces, alert for any sign of uprising, although none of the gladiators save Battousai were armed. I was surprised that he had retained his sword when the others had deposited theirs in the armory. Then again, Battousai was the most celebrated and renown gladiator in all of Rome, if not the empire. Perhaps he was accorded special privileges that other gladiators were not.

Battousai did not leave his position as dinner ended and the other gladiators started drifting into knots. I had absolutely no desire to join them and was thankful for Battousai's presence. It had occurred to me that I was in particular danger as an unarmed female in the midst of battle-hardened men who probably had little access to women. I had a feeling that if the other gladiators should take it into their hands to attack me, the guards would either do nothing or join in. Despite Battousai's words of assurance that I would come to no harm, I was not entirely convinced.

Looking at him, I marveled at his serene silence. He sat in one position as still as a statue. Absolute discipline and control were written in every muscle of his being. His presence calmed me and as I sat besides him and perceived his energy and aura seep over me, I felt an assurance and peace I had not sensed since my father was taken from me.

Finally, evening dawned and guards began prodding the gladiators into their individual cells. Battousai rose and motioned for me to join him. I walked besides him as he followed the guards into the sleeping quarters. Battousai stopped at one cell and beckoned me inside it. I did, hesitantly, (I was not sure why he was escorting me to my sleeping quarters) but I felt that he could be trusted. It was dark inside, but I could see that it was small and plain: a hard bed was the only furniture in it.

Battousai stood at the door, holding a torch in his hand that faintly lit up the small room. "Karou-dono," he said. "Please watch." He pulled the door shut behind us and pointed out two slots on the door and wall. "You may lock your door by sliding this piece of wood between these two slots," he said, demonstrating it for me with a thick slab of wood.

I looked at him quizzically. He responded, "It would be wise if you locked your door each night. No gladiator will touch you while I am living, but..." he shook his head "I cannot say that there will not be others who wish to harm you. For your own safety, please lock your door."

Nodding silently, I agreed with him. He gave me a silent bow, wished me goodnight, then left, shutting the door softly behind him.

The room seemed much emptier without Battousai, but I was too tired to mull on this further. Instead, I pulled off my sweat-soaked uniform, longing for water to cleanse my smelly body, but there was none. Instead, I stretched out on the hard bed, hoping for sleep to bring some relief.

Sleep was hard to come, despite my exhaustion. At that moment in time I was alive, fed, and relatively safe. No doubt I would eventually meet death in the Colosseum, but at the present, there were no threats to claim my attention. Relief from physical threat gave my anxious thoughts time to ponder other matters, and they immediately turned to my newly dead father. With all the extraordinary events that had happened, there had been little time to grieve him. Alone in my cell, surrounded by the grunts and mutters of the other gladiators, the shock and disgrace of my father's death hit me like the blow of a sword. Curling into a ball, I cried silently to myself until I had no more tears and eventually exhaustion sent me into the welcomed arms of sleep.

**Glossary**

**Gladiatrix: female gladiator**

**Ludus: training area for gladiators **


	4. Chapter 4

From the graceful halls of my father I was torn and thrown into the bloody, violent world of the gladiator. I had thought myself strong and brave, but the training ludus quickly showed me how soft and spoiled I was. The training masters and the other gladiators showed me no pity or consideration as a woman; I was expected to train just as hard as the other gladiators. Their treatment of me was brutal but reasonable – I would be facing the same dangers in the arena as the other gladiators and had just as much need of preparing for combat as them.

Thankfully, Battousai's word held true – the crude sexual comments and coarse remarks died down, and no one had a word of disrespect to say to me in his presence. I was grateful for this; it helped me better focus on my training and worrying about how to stay alive in the arena. In the weeks that passed, as I grew stronger and improved my sword play, some of the gladiators even bore a grudging respect for my skills. They would never embrace me as a comrade-in-arms and among gladiators it was foolish to make close friends: you never knew if one day you would be assigned to fight your friend to the death in the arena. But at least the men tolerated me and I did not feel afraid in their presence.

When I was not fighting off the practice swords of another, I carefully observed the other men's fighting skills, Battousai's in particular. His fighting style was unlike anything I had ever seen before. For one, his sword had a single cutting edge, not two, and it was long and curved unlike the short, straight glaidus. The sword allowed him a longer reach, and he also had a curious habit of keeping it in its sheath until the last moment so that the act of drawing the sword from the sheath was also an attack. Time after time again, I saw him defeat his opponent simply by unsheathing and striking in one blinding blur of motion. Battousai also had amazing leaping capacity, almost as if he could fly. I began to see the constant need for the archers at his side; one like him could easily escape, and it was only the threat of arrows that kept him inside the ludus.

My new life was violent, traumatic, and bewildering: too many times to count I silently cried into my coarse blanket until exhaustion mercifully claimed me. It had been desperation and, to tell the truth, cockiness, that had lead me to make my bargain with Commodus. In the training ludus, there were times that I wondered if I should have let myself die in the arena. The first few weeks of training revealed to me how woefully unprepared I was for fighting as a gladiator: I would soon be facing desperate, battle-hardened men much stronger and crueler than myself, and I did not know how I would survive my first turn in the Colosseum, much less earn my freedom and extract my revenge from Commodus. But I had no choice – it was either fight or die, and I did not intend to die.

However, my training masters, as cruel and extracting towards me as they were the other gladiators, taught me their skills, and I learned quickly. Battousai himself quite often had a quiet observation or suggestion to make: there was nothing his eyes missed, and I found all of his comments infinitely helpful. But I never noticed him teaching any other gladiators his skill – he simply used his sword skills against their Roman-trained tactics and never lost a battle.

It was Battousai's sword play that had me constantly puzzling – I had never seen anything like it before, and I questioned him about it one day.

He gave me his gentle smile, "My sword is of the art of Hiten Mitsurugi, Karou-dono, passed on to me by my master, Seijuro Hiko." The smile faded, replaced with a dark look, "For that, I profane it."

"Why so?" I questioned.

Battousai said nothing for a moment, then responded in the same heavy tones, "Hiten Mitsurugi is meant to protect life at all causes. Master meant to teach this one the way of peace. Instead this one disobeyed his master's orders by running away and joining a group of patriots intent on restoring his country back to its former glory. In his foolishness, he allowed himself to commit acts of bloodshed, thinking he was doing the right thing. Instead it led him to this arena where he kills men for the sport of others." As he spoke, his hand involuntarily gripped the handle of his sword so tightly his knuckles whitened.

Thinking to comfort him, I said, "You are the most celebrated gladiator in Rome. Surely you will earn your freedom soon and can stop killing."

Battousai tried to smile but it died on his lips. "This one wishes with all his heart that his day of freedom will come, and it may: the Emperor has promised him freedom in the next year or so should he keep on slaughtering men so magnificently, but..." he did not finish the thought.

I said nothing. Battousai was an enigma: he was at once one of the most gentle and most fearsome man I had ever met and although the sword at his side seemed as much a part of him as his arm, I had the distinct feeling that he would throw it away and live a life of peace if he could. He was a man bathed in blood, and it was as if every drop was made of lead which weighed his soul down.

Weeks passed and one day Lucucius, our training master, gruffly informed me that my turn in the arena was in three days. There was a group of Christians who were facing the lions. If I fought and won, they would go free: Commodus had kept his word. Lucucius also presented to me my fighting uniform for the event, and I was appalled at it: a tiny metal and leather skirt with chains attached to it and metal cups to cover my breasts. Wearing it, I was only marginally more dressed than if I had gone naked. Lucucius simply sighed and shook his head at me when he saw my outraged expression. However, I was not entirely surprised: it was rare but not unknown for women to fight as gladiators in the arena, and those that did were usually decked out in scandalous outfits such as the one I was holding. I knew that refusing to wear it was not an option – any protest on my part might result in me being forced to fight actually naked as opposed to nearly naked. I took comfort in two truths; one that I would probably be too far away and too active for the people in the stands to see me that clearly and two that all the exposed skin might serve as a distraction to any gladiators I might fight and give me an advantage.

My uniform certainly served as a distraction. When I walked across the ludus to join the other gladiators who would be fighting that day, eyes immediately drew towards me. Battousai was in the group, and his presence kept any filthy comments from being verbalized. However, one gigantic fellow by the name of Marcus who had gradually come to partially accept me as a fighter said in a teasing voice, "Here comes the _virago_, boys. Karou, how many Christians are you planning on saving today?" His big voice was friendly, and I knew that he was trying, in his rough way, to make me feel a little less uncomfortable.

I grinned back, "All of them, Marcus."

"Good," he laughed, then turned to the others, "Let's go play with some kitties, boys." There were five of us all together: myself, Marcus, Battousai, and two other men. Battousai was his normal implacable calm: I wondered if anything ever frighted him. The other three men seemed nervous but edgy and ready to fight. Myself, I was scared; fighting a wild, hungry animal was not something I had trained for, and it was common knowledge that the wild animals let loose in the arena were starved prior to the event so that they would ravenously fall upon anything that didn't get out of the way fast enough.

Too soon we were jogging up the incline onto the arena floor. Despite my hope that I would be far enough away from the crowd that they wouldn't see my scandalous costume that clearly, it was abundantly apparent that I was wrong – cat calls and coarse language filled my ears as men leaned over the edge of the arena, their eyes boring into my body. I turned away, determined to focus on the fight at hand. In the middle of the arena was a small, huddled group of Christians. We ran towards them and positioned ourselves so that we encircled them.

More doors opened and deep roars filled the stadium, drowning out the crowd. Seven sleek, angry shapes leaped into the arena sand: three leopards, a tiger, and three lions. Sinuous, deadly, and hungry, they looked at us and began edging in for the kill, moving like liquid flame. Starvation shone in their eyes, and their visible ribs evidenced how long they had gone without eating.

Two pounced at once and sudden pandemonium broke out. The group of Christians screamed, and several people broke away from the huddle, panic overcoming logic. The tiger attacked one fleeing man, neatly severing his head from his body in one bite and began devouring him in huge bites before I could reach him. Distracted, the tiger did not notice me until my glaidus buried itself in the cat's neck up to the hilt. Screaming, the tiger lashed out, his claws scoring deep slashes across my arm. Agony raced through my body but I pulled my sword free and stepped back for another attack. But the big cat was spasming and thrashing about in the throes of death, no longer an immediate threat.

I instantly turned back to the others. Some of the Christians still stayed in a small knot, and Marcus and the other two gladiators were valiantly defending them from two lions who were stalking the group, looking for weaknesses. Two cats lay dead on the ground along with the bodies of a woman and a small child. Two leopards were being held back by Battousai, who was a whirl of shining red hair and white fabric snapping in the wind. As I turned my attention away from the dying tiger, one of the leopards whipped his head around and pounced.

As it fell towards me, I ducked under it and stabbed upward, killing it in one swift, fatal stroke. The other leopard turned, hissed at me and began stalking. Without giving it time to collect itself for a pounce, I ran at it screaming like a mad woman. It jerked and tensed, then turned to flee. Adrenaline rushing in my veins, crowding out logic, I threw my glaidus at it like a javelin; it hit home, slicing through ribs and felling the cat to the ground in a kicking frenzy of agony.

Only two lions were left. To my dismay when I turned back to the small group, one gladiator was down and being savaged by one of the lions. Marcus and the other gladiator were fending off the last lion, a gigantic beast bigger than the other six. It swung its head around, then fastened its gaze at me. Terror seized me; my sword was at least fifteen feet away and I stood there unarmed. Crouching to the ground, the lion's body tensed, gathered, then flung itself at me. As in a dream, I watched its sinuous body fall towards me but suddenly I felt myself being snatched up and whirled away: Battousai had caught me in his arms and whisked me out of the cat's path. Setting me on the ground, he flew at the cat, slicing through the thick mane and severing its head.

Suddenly it was over. The fight couldn't have lasted for more than a few minutes, but it had seemed like an eternity. The crowd erupted in cheers and screams, and thumbs flashed upwards. We four remaining gladiators looked at each other, then towards the bodies lying in the arena sand. One of our gladiators had died and so had three Christians, and the remaining Christians left clustered around the bodies of their fallen comrades, a few weeping softly. But of the group, sixteen had survived; I made a quick count. Sixteen Christians would be set free and live to walk this earth another day. I was exhausted and blood streaked, the gouges on my arm throbbing with pain, but I was alive.

Looking at Battousai, I was expected to see the same look of triumph and relief that the other two gladiators showed and myself felt. To my surprise, there was nothing but sorrow and regret on his face, a look that haunted me as we were taken away. I saw to it that the Christians were let loose into the city and that my fellow gladiators were attended to; Marcus had a significant bite mark on his arm and Marcelum, the other gladiator, was also scratched and and banged up but we were alive. Only Battousai was untouched, and he had been the only one not wearing any sort of armor. He himself saw to my wounds, cleansing them with a strange medicine he had brought from his country and insisting that I keep an eye on them to watch for festering. But there was a strange sorrow in his mood, as if something had disturbed the bedrock calmness of him.

I brooded long on it that night, adrenaline coursing in my system far too freely to let me sleep. But I could make nothing of it and eventually sleep claimed me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: Another chapter – whew! There should be one more chapter after this, and I promise to kick it out a little sooner. Slight lime to this one, just so you know. **

**Melcon **

That first battle was one of many, many more. I fought bears, lions, and other beasts along with gladiators: gladiators on foot, mounted on horses, riding atop chariots fitted with spiked spokes that would slice a man's legs from his body if he got too close.

At each battle, I fought for the lives of Christians, protecting them from whatever had been set against me in the arena and watching them walk free from the Colosseum once the fight was over. Battousai was always at my side; there was never a battle I faced that he was not part of. I suppose that his status as the most highly-regarded gladiator in Rome allowed him certain leeway in picking what fights he participated in, and I was thankful for his presence for he kept a constant watch on my back. He had the ability to simultaneously back me up without making it obvious he was watching out for me at the same time he was fighting off his own attackers. As time passed, my skills increased in astonishing leaps, and I needed less and less of Battousai's assistance; I became a gladiator in my own right.

Weeks grew into months and Rome's insatiable appetite for violence did not diminish. Battousai was still celebrated as the most skilled gladiator in all of Rome, but rumor reached my ears that I was also becoming quite popular in my own right. At first, it was mostly the novelty of a gladiatrix that boosted my increasing reputation, but as my skill with the glaidus grew, Rome embraced me as a favorite entertainer and that brought both opportunities and disadvantages. One of the disadvantages was attention from those seeking a different kind of entertainment than normally found in the arena. Popular gladiators, Battousai especially, were often courted by rich women of Rome – Roman matrons would often pay exorbitant amounts for an illicit romp with a virile gladiator. It was no secret that Battousai was the target of many a bored lady with money and time on her hands, but to the consternation of many of his fellow gladiators, he turned down each one with such courteous politeness that few went away upset with him.

To my astonishment, I was not exempt from these types of attentions: word reached me that more than one high-ranking Roman bachelor had petitioned my superiors for permission to buy my freedom and marry me. Such news flabbergasted me; I saw no reason why anyone would want a wife as scarred and battle-hardened as I was. Too much time in the sun and too many rounds with wild beasts and other gladiators had robbed me of much of my youth and good looks. My hair was cut short to fit better under a helmet and be easier to maintain, and there was little femininity in my appearance. In the rare times I caught a glimpse of myself in a bucket of water or highly-polished shield, I saw sunburned skin, eyebrows in desperate need of plucking, a face robbed of any cosmetics, and a colorful effusion of scars and bruises. There was nothing that would tempt any respectable man into marriage. While I longed desperately to put away my sword and live a life that was not constantly seeped in blood and murder, I had little hope that my life would continue for much longer; at some point in the future, a sword would be too quick or a wild beast would be too much for me and that would be it: the only way I was leaving the arena was by being dragged out by my very dead ankles.

However, in those moments when I was honest with myself, I knew the truth: I did not want to leave Battousai's side even if doing so meant that I remained a gladiator. I suppose that it was somewhat natural that I fell in love with him: few women could have resisted his endless courtesy and martial spirit, the perfect blend of courtier and warrior. The intense pressure of constant death and our status as comrades-in-arms had also drawn me to him. But it was a foolish and dangerous love; Battousai, though courteous and attentive to a fault, showed no sign that he returned my ardent feelings, and I was far too shy to make them obvious. Had we been normal citizens, myself the daughter of a still-celebrated tribunusand himself a person of rank and importance, perhaps we could have had a chance. Maybe we would have married and had children and lived a happy life. But we were both gladiators, wedded to the sword and the sands of the arena. He was a foreigner and I was the daughter of a disgraced, executed Roman official. Voicing my feelings and giving into the desires I felt stirring in my heart was pointless – even if Battousai loved me in return, neither of us could change the position we were in. At any moment, one of us might die in the arena. The most either of us could hope for was to win the favor of the Emperor and be set free. The possibility of this happening was remote, but I could not help indulging in this hope every so often, the dream of both of us being set free and finding a little house somewhere to live happily away from swords and blood. Certainly we could find work, enough to survive and feed a family. If only.

It was one of those times that I was indulging in this fantasy. Battousai and I were both in the ludus, resting under a canopy in the heat of the day. While an event was happening at the Colosseum, both of us were exempt from it for the day and we were happy in the chance to rest. I was overjoyed to simply be in Battousai's presence; pretending to sleep, I was actually watching him underneath my heavy lashes. He sat as still as a stone, eyes closed in meditation. Surreptitiously, I traced every line of his face and body with my eyes, lingering on every beloved plane and angle, grateful for the quiet moment of peace and serenity.

It did not last. The sound of feet caught my attention, and I turned to see Lucucius striding towards us. He cleared his throat and said roughly, "Karou, get your armor on. You're wanted in the arena."

Puzzled, I looked at him. He sighed heavily, "The Emperor...the Emperor wanted to bring back some of the older styles of entertainment, like we had before you started fighting. Had a group of Christians brought in and set the lions on them, thought the crowd would like it." Lucucius paused, then continued, "They didn't. Damned near rioted in the stands calling for you. 'Karou the Merciful' they called for." He jerked his head. "Emperor wants you now. Says you are to fight since the crowd wants it."

Battousai gave a slight nod, "Go, Karou-dono. I will wait for you." I hurried to my cell and threw on my stupidly scandalous costume/armor, wondering for the thousandth time what idiot had thought of its design. Soon Battousai and I were striding up into the arena. The crowd erupted into cheers when we stepped onto the sand. Flowers began falling like rain and the deafening cries of "Karou!" "Battousai!" echoed chaotically.

The sands were bloody with entrails and severed limbs. I was deeply saddened to see the bodies of several women, men, and children scattered around. Four lions crouched over these bodies, devouring them greedily but there were no signs of living humans. But as I thought this, another door opened and some people were shoved through it. The lions whipped their heads around and began growling.

Battousai and I looked at each other, and then back at the lions. Four starving cats against two fighters were not odds I cared to grapple with, but we had no choice. Our swords sang in the heat of the arena; my short glaidus and Battousai's curved katana flashed and danced as one. The fight was dangerous and bloody, but Battousai and I prevailed and not another human life was lost that day.

I did not think the crowds could have gotten any louder, but they did, nearly shaking the stadium off its foundation as they cheered our names while we escorted the huddled group of Christians out of the arena. Chants of "Karou the Merciful!" rang in my ears for a long time after that.

I did not know it at the time, but I was slowly changing things. My fight for Christians became something that people began to admire, and public opinion about Christianity began to shift. Voices began to speak out in protest against the mass execution of Christians and the horrific martyrdoms they faced in the arena. While Rome's blood lust continued, a decreasing number of people found wholesale slaughter as entertaining as a good fight; people began to judge it better sport to watch me and Battousai battle valiantly to save the lives of helpless people than it was to see gladiators and animals brutally savage people who had no way of defending themselves or fighting back.

This did not escape the shrewd ears of Commodus. One fateful day, Battousai and I both received word that the Emperor himself wanted an audience with us. This was unusual and put me instantly on alert: Commodus was well-known for his arrogance and love of cruel jokes, and he was intolerable to anything that threatened his iron rule. As of late, I had become troubled at how my reputation was being held up throughout Rome, certain that it would not escape the notice of the Emperor.

As Battousai and I were lead into the Emperor's presence, my fighting companion and secret love gave every appearance of being his normal, implacable self, unruffled in any circumstance. However, I had come to know him well enough to sense cracks in his armor, hints of the emotions that boiled under the calm surface. As we left the ludus, I could tell that Battousai was agitated and worried and this concerned me deeply.

We were brought in before Commodus who was in full court and pomp in his receiving chamber. Waving his hands at us, he greeted us warmly, "Welcome, welcome to the heroes of Rome! All hail the two most celebrated gladiators in the empire!" Polite claps ensued from various sycophants around the room, and Commodus himself clapped. Yet there was tension in the air and I could not help but notice the smirk the Emperor was doing little to conceal. Something was most certainly up.

We did not have long to wait to find out. As the clapping died out, the Emperor raised his hands and said, "In fact, all Rome is abuzz with the question of who is the better gladiator: Battousai or Karou the Merciful?" My breath caught in my throat as sick dread seized my stomach; I had all too clear an idea of where this was going.

I was right. Commodus continued, "Oh yes, it's true. Go to any party in Rome, and that's all anyone will talk about. Battousai's fans and Karou's fans, oh how they fight over this issue! In fact, I've heard of some households where the husband and wife won't talk to each other because he bets on Battousai and she on Karou. Imagine that!" Commodus gave a chuckle that made my heart sink even lower into my toes. Battousai had remained as still as a stone, but I could sense the worry and anger welling up in him.

"Truth is," Commodus continued, "We simply cannot have two best gladiators. And I cannot have so much fighting among my people. Bad for the gambling business, bad for families, just bad all around. So it came to me," he said with a hearty guff, "It needs to be decided, who really is the best gladiator: Battousai or Karou? So, in two days, you will face each other in the Colosseum to settle the answer once and for all. We will see who truly is the best gladiator in all of Rome." He finished his proclamation with the cruelest smile I have ever seen on a human.

"I will not do this," Battousai's voice rang out, calmly but with steel flashing in his words.

"Nor I," I responded firmly.

Commodus' smile became more twisted and with cruelty edging his voice, he said. "If one of you refuses to fight, the other one will die. If one of you decides to do the noble thing and end his or her life, the other one will die." He paused for a moment and let his words sink in. "But," he held up his hand. "If you fight and Battousai wins, I will free him and return him to his own country with honor and riches. If you fight and Karou wins, I will free her, pardon her father's name, and restore her place in society. Why would you refuse this when you stand to gain so much?"

Battousai and I said nothing. I was in shock, reeling from the enormity of what had been said and the choice in front of me. Commodus, having said his piece, was obviously luxuriating in the cruel paradox he had set before us. There was no need to respond to Commodus's question because he clearly knew why we would refuse. For all his evilness, he was a perceptive man and a skilled reader of people. Obviously, he had anticipated objection from us, recognizing that a man and a woman regularly facing death together would naturally develop affection for each other and be reluctant to face each other in battle. However, he had probably also assumed that the promise of freedom and restoration would be enough to spur both of us to try our best to defeat each other. But he was wrong. I cared little for regaining my place in society and was not willing to kill the man I loved to redeem my dead father's name. Had Commodus not decreed that Battousai would die if I either refused to fight or killed myself to save him, I would have fallen upon the first glaidus I could get my hands upon. But the trap was meticulous, and I could see no way out.

Nearly blind from shock, heartsick, rolling with agony, and trying valiantly to hold back tears, I am not sure how I managed to get from Commodus' receiving room back to my own cell. But suddenly I found myself alone, curled up on my bed and shaking from emotion. Afternoon stretched to evening and became night, and as the cells around me filled up with gladiators, nighttime quietness set in. In the darkness, I heard a soft tap on my door. Sensing it was Battousai, I opened it.

He stood outside my door in a small pool of light from the torch he held in his hand. While his face was calm as normal, grief was radiating from his eyes. Wordlessly, I stepped back and let him into the room. He placed the torch on a holder in the wall and turned to face me. As I gazed at him, all my resolve and restraint vanished in a moment and I hurled myself forward into his arms. Battousai's arms caught me in a fierce embrace, crushing me against him. Our knees buckled, and I found myself kneeling on the ground, cradled in his arms as I sobbed against his chest. He held me to him as if I was the most precious thing in the world, rubbing his lips over my forehead and hair and murmuring in a soft foreign tongue, his heart language. Long minutes passed, if not hours. Eventually, I lay quiet in his arms as he cradled me in his lap like a child and leaned against the wall.

My voice was thick with tears and emotions as I broke the silence by whispering his name in a cracked, hollow voice, "Battousai."

He sighed heavily, "Kenshin, Karou my love. My name is Kenshin."

I looked at him in confusion. He sighed again, "Battousai...Battousai was the name given to the assassin of Japan, the one who killed many people and rendered families asunder. This one kept that name when he was sold as a gladiator. It seemed fitting, and he did not wish to sully the name his master gave him, so Battousai he remained. But..." he took my hand and placed it against his cheek. "Not here. Karou his love will know him by his right name."

_Love_. I was stunned. The man I had known as Battousai had been polite, courteous, and protective, but I had never entertained true hopes that he loved me. But the strength that he held me with, the gentle hands stroking my back, and the emotion of his voice told me that my love was returned. However the rapture of discovering his love was equal to the agony of knowing that tomorrow we would face each other with drawn swords. I had absolutely no fear of my own death and would welcome the thrust of his blade as eagerly as I would his kiss, but I was wretchedly afraid that he would take the noble route and deliberately throw himself in my way, causing me to accidentally kill him. I did not want to live without him, but killing myself would cause Kenshin's death too. There was only one option available.

Pulling myself slightly away from him, I looked at him with determined eyes. "Kenshin, if you love me, let us both die now together." My eyes went to the sword at his side, the strange katana that had both shielded me and killed others. "Only one of us can live, and I cannot live without you or live with the shame that I killed you." My hand moved to the handle of his sword. "Let us end this together." I tried a smile. "Perhaps, perhaps the life we were meant to have together is waiting for us after death."

Kenshin's callused, strong hand closed over mine and he shook his head firmly. "No, my love," he said. He pulled back slightly, "Do not worry," he murmured calmly. "Everything will be all right in the end." His calmness only agitated my fear.

"How can you say that?" I snapped. "How can it be all right? Did you not hear Commodus? Do you not realize the impossible situation he placed before us? How can you..." With one swift movement, Kenshin pulled me effortless towards him and covered my mouth with his.

All my protests and fears died away in an instant. Kenshin curved one hand around my jaw, cupping my cheek and pulling me into him as his other arm wrapped around me, snuggling my body into the firmness of his own. Shock froze me for one moment, then passion woke to life. I had never been kissed before but found that my body responded eagerly, then boldly. Soon my arms were wrapped around Kenshin, my hands tangled in the length of his vibrant red hair. As our kiss deepened, our passions grew, demanding more. My nails dug into Kenshin's scalp as his hands roamed freely up and down my back and sides. Without realizing what I was doing, I pulled him backwards, and he responded eagerly, laying me gently on the hard floor and exploring my throat and chest with inquiring lips. My hands, seemingly of their own volition, moved to the front of his pink tunic and began working it open.

Kenshin suddenly gave a start and with a smooth movement, pulled himself free of my arms back into a kneeling position. "Karou-dono, no, we cannot do this," he said heavily, breath thick with emotion.

I lay on the ground confused, suddenly cold, and swiftly becoming angry. Rolling up to a sitting position, I looked at him, "But why..."

He shook his head as if trying to clear it. "No, not like this."

Angry and confused, I moved towards him, my body screaming for him, demanding to melt and mold into him as I had longed to do so many, many times. With death as certain tomorrow as the sun rising, all I wanted was to feel alive and have one happy night before facing the end of my short life. Ignoring his protests, I pushed myself back into his arms, emotion crowded out anything other than the desire to be with him, know him, feel his body against mine.

Kenshin's hands gripped me again, but this time they held my arms at my side, gently but firmly. "No Karou," he said heavily, emotion making his breath ragged.

Angry, hurt, and rejected, I twisted myself free, feeling shame and confusion well over me. Had I mistaken him? Was he really not in love with me?

"Karou..." Kenshin said, his words strangling in his throat. I looked at him and saw that he was struggling deeply for mastery over himself. "My love, I cannot...we cannot...I might give you a child tonight if I lie with you. I cannot...I cannot bear the thought of leaving you behind alone and with our child."

His words chilled me. "You said everything would be all right," I threw it back at him, fear edging my voice. "You said that." Suddenly I was clear of his plan: he was going to sacrifice himself for me.

Kenshin closed his eyes for one long moment, and when he opened them, there was nothing but calmness on his face. The lover had vanished. What remained was the warrior, the strong one who would protect and serve and never do anything that would violate his moral convictions. The one who would not give into temptation if it lead to weakness or the the harm of someone else. I inwardly railed at that, wishing that for once Kenshin would not be so noble and insistent on doing the right thing.

All the sudden, I was very tired. Kenshin must have sensed that because he wrapped his arms around me, gently lifted me up off the ground, and carried me to the bed. Placing me on it, he tucked the covers around me as if I was a child, all the while murmuring to me in his language. When he was done, he turned to go, but my hand closed on his. "Please, don't leave me," I begged. "Stay with me."

I was half-afraid he would say no, but Kenshin instead pulled the sword loose from his belt, set it against the wall, and lay down on the narrow bed with me. He sighed deeply as he pulled me into his arms, snuggling my back into his chest and tucking my head under his chin. His warmth and the scent of his body called to me like the pull of home, and as he held me, my tears started falling. I wanted to stay awake the whole night, to forever impress in my memory the strength of his body, the feel of his breath tickling my hair, and the safety I felt in his arms. But eventually the agonies of the day and my overstretched emotions claimed their due and I gradually, reluctantly slipped into a troubled sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Last Chapter! Lots of violence, death, and sadness in this one. Thanks for reading. **

**Melcon **

Dawn broke, poking its slender fingers through the barred windows of my cell. As I woke, reality and memories immediately flooded my consciousness, jarring me awake with a shuddering cry. Instinctively, my hand reached out, but Kenshin was no longer at my side. Only the faint scent of his skin, masculine with an undertone of spice I could not place, remained as a lingering reminder of his presence the past night.

Letting my head fall back on the pillow, I curled into a fetal position, clutching myself and wishing desperately for death. I thought of Kenshin's words last night, and sick dread seized my empty stomach; knowing Kenshin, I foresaw that he was planning on sacrificing himself to save me. Somehow he would find a way to make certain that my sword pierced his vitals, dying so that I could be set free and restored.

_No_, I told myself firmly. I could not let him do this, not let the man I loved die by my hands. Instead, I would be the one who would die. Although I was celebrated throughout Rome as one of the two best gladiators, I had no doubts that Kenshin's skills were far superior to my own. If he were to fight me in earnest, my life would be astonishingly short. In truth, I suspected that Commodus knew this and was banking on the chance that Kenshin would consider killing me worth the price of freedom. In doing so, Commodus no doubt thought he was easily ridding himself of someone who was fast becoming a political rallying point. It wasn't just the horrific plight of Christians that my battles in the arena were bringing attention too; it was also the fact that the women of Rome were beginning to uphold me as some sort of standard of womanly power and accomplishment. If a female could be one of the most powerful gladiators in all of Rome, some Roman women were starting to reason that they didn't need to bow meekly to male teaching that women are foolish, weak, simple-minded, and prone to licentiousness. I was simply too dangerous to stay alive, and Commodus tolerated nothing that threatened his power.

I had never set out to be a crusader of political change. At first, all I had wished for was to save some innocent lives and make some use out of the catastrophe that had befallen my life. Then I had met Kenshin, fallen in love with him, and clung to the faint hope that someday we could be freed and allowed to live our love. But the fates had swept me up, and I was as helpless in their grasp as a fish in a net.

_No, not entirely hopeless_, I realized. I could make one decision and I had done that: to let Kenshin kill me in order that he might walk free. I had made my mind up; there were only a few short hours of my life left, and the misery and sorrow of the past several months were swiftly falling to a close. I suppose I should have felt some fear and anxiety at the thought of my swiftly-approaching death, but I knew that it would come at the hands of the one I loved the best. Him, I trusted above all others and would eagerly embrace anything he gave me, even if it was the thrust of a naked blade.

When I walked out into the ludus that morning, I was surprised to find that it was unusually quiet. Gladiators milled around as usual, but there was an odd air of sorrow and gloom. As I walked by, various gladiators gave me unhappy, troubled glances. Breakfast was a silent affair, and more than one gladiator gave me an oddly affectionate pat on the shoulder or awkward squeeze on the arm as he passed by. Things had changed much in the past months – I was no longer the woman to be objectified and lusted over but a gladiator by full right and one that was facing certain death.

Soon, too soon, I stood in front of the door to the arena as it creaked open, a sound I had heard dozens of times. Walking out into the arena, I was greeted with rousing cheers from the crowd. This fight had been highly anticipated, and the Colosseum was packed with spectators. Flags were flying, blue for me and red for Kenshin, and hawkers jostled their way through the crowds selling trinkets and other gimmicks for adoring fans.

I cared nothing for my surroundings; all my focus was on the short, slender figure waiting for me in the middle of the arena. When I approached him, Kenshin bowed formally, something he always did before a sparring match with another gladiator. I bowed back, feeling the tears trickle in my eyes and wishing desperately that I could have one final moment with him, just a small space of time to tell him again how much I loved him. But there was no time, no words, nothing but the sands under our feet and the swords at our sides.

We drew, our swords flashing in the sun, and attacked. While we had sparred many times in the past months, this was like nothing we had ever done before. Because of our previous sparring practice, we knew each other well. I was intimately familiar with the way his slender frame curved and spun, the quick flash of his feet, and the angles his strange sword took. As we fought and wove across the arena, it was like an intricately choreographed dance, as tender and intimate as making love. Nothing existed outside of our two whirling frames. Kenshin's eyes never left my face, and the emotion in his expression spoke volumes into my soul.

We wove and spun like birds in a mating dance, pulling away, coming together, striking and blocking. Our panted breaths rose and fell, and it was as if ours swords were weaving the rhythm of a song, some unique refrain that we two alone could hear. It sung of our love and loss and what we could have had together that never would be. At the apex of the song, right when Kenshin's eyes were boring into mine with intensity, I gazed back with a final look and then saw my opening. Rather than blocking his incoming strike, I dropped my guard, waiting for the welcoming blow.

It did not come. Rather than ending the sword song, Kenshin kept it going, whirling around me and putting on a show of struggling valiantly against me but without letting any of his strikes hit the open points I was deliberately exposing to him. Slight frustration flushed me as I threw myself back into the fight, deliberately throwing weak strikes and sloppy blocks back at him, purposefully putting myself into the path of his incoming blade. But Kenshin's reflexes were too good, his skills too prodigious, and he defied all my attempts to let him kill me. At the very last millisecond, he would withdraw his blade, turn back a strike, snake around me in a whirl of red hair so that I remained very much alive despite my intense efforts to die. My frustration grew to anger, then climbed to fear; all my focus had been on letting Kenshin kill me, and I had no backup plan should my original purpose fail.

I was so concentrated on trying to spear myself on Kenshin's blade that I paid scant attention to where my own sword was aiming. All the sudden, in one dreadful, heart-rendering judder, everything stopped. I jerked, blinked, and then stared in horror at the sight of my glaidus buried into Kenshin's side. Already, thick red blood was welling out onto the pink tunic, dripping down his side onto the white garment and down to his sandaled feet. _No_. My heart lurched, then gave a scream. Kenshin's body spasmed, then he turned to smile at me, a glassy-eyed glance that I recognized all too clearly as coming from one inches from death.

I immediately let go of the glaidus. Kenshin's hand reached up and pulled it free before I could stop him. Blood poured freely from his wound, a river of crimson like his flowing red hair. As my arms seized around his waist, Kenshin sagged slowly towards the ground.

Agony and shock tore through me as I clutched Kenshin's dying body to me, screaming, crying, and begging him not to leave me. Kenshin's hand, streaked with blood, trembled its way up to my face.

"Karou...Karou my love..." he gasped out through bloody lips. "Forgive...forgive me. Live...live my...love," he voice trailed away and his hand dropped to his chest. One sigh followed, and his body sagged in my arms as his great spirit tore itself free from its fleshly chains.

Around me, the crowds had grown silent, unsure of what to make of the spectacle in front of them. But I was too wracked with grief and bewilderment to give this more than a dim recognition; all my focus was on the face of my beloved and the irreconcilable grief of his death from my sword.

Rough hands tore at me, yanking me away from Kenshin. I fought back heedlessly, striking like an animal at anything I could reach, biting, kicking, and screaming. I was dragged from the arena, four men holding my arms and legs, and I fought desperately the entire way, hell-bent on getting back to Kenshin. But they were too strong for me and dragged me into a dark cell where I was chained hand and foot, spread eagled against the wall, and left alone.

Silence. Only the drip of water and the faint sounds of the crowd in the distance reached my ears. The silence was unbearable; it pressed into me all I had lost and the agony of Kenshin's death. I was furiously, blindly angry with him for letting him kill me. I should have been the one who died. If I had known I would be taken from him, I would have killed myself there in the arena at his side. But Commodus' goons acted too quickly for me to follow Kenshin in death.

Footsteps shuffled on the dank stones, and a figure loomed forward, followed by three people carrying torches. Commodus. Dressed in elegant armor and armed with a glaidus, he also wore a smirk of unbearable smugness. "Well, well," he said cheerfully. "I must say that was an unexpected turn of events. My money was on Kenshin, truth be known. I see that I own Cornelius ten aureus coins."

"May God damn your soul to the darkest circles of hell," I snarled back. All my agony and anger at Kenshin instantly centered on this hateful figure in front of me, the man that had executed my father, imprisoned me, made me a gladiator, and forced me to kill the man I loved. The depths of my hatred for him was bottomless, and I wanted nothing more than to face him with a drawn sword.

It seemed that I was going to receive my wish because Commodus continued in the same light-hearted tone, "Now now, there is no need for that. I must say, I am quite impressed with your skill, young one. Who would have thought you could beat Battousai? Well, it seems to me that we can't let this skill go untested. Battousai, after all, was hardly what you'd call a disinterested party." His smile became knowing. "Oh yes, I'm sure that there are plenty of other men you would much rather try your hand at killing. Me, for instance."

I looked at him blankly. Commodus continued. "Oh yes, I don't think we have truly seen your skills, little Karou. After all, you always had Battousai to protect you in the arena. And you didn't want to kill him just now. But facing an opponent you hate with all the passion in your soul, now that would be interesting!" He had come closer to me, and in the cold cell, I could feel the heat of his body. Every fiber in my being recoiled from it.

"A shame though," Commodus's voice turned to a croon and his hand reached up to caress my face. "So pretty. A pity to waste it as gladiator bait." I recoiled in disgust and when his hand reached for me again, I snapped at it, longing to bite a finger or two off.

Commodus jerked away in time. "Now, now, Little Karou, wait now. You'll have your chance in just a moment, and you can try killing me as hard as you like. But first..." Suddenly he whirled on me and blinding pain shot through my body. Commodus withdrew a slender blade from where he had embedded it in my shoulder. Wiping it clean on my skirt, he turned to go, ordering the guards, "Clean that wound up, bandage it, and get her back in the arena. She's not done fighting."

The physical shock of being wounded crashed into the emotional shock of Kenshin's death, and I fell into a strange daze, unmoving as the guards bandaged my wounds. I dully noted that they did so with surprising gentleness and strange looks of compassion and disgust on their hardened faces. As they worked, the seriousness of my wound began to sink into me. The knife had gone in deep and the wound was bleeding freely. As minutes passed, I felt myself grow number and weaker from blood loss and pain.

_Movement, color, light, noise._ I found myself back in the arena, facing the sounds of crowds cheering. In the middle of the arena was Commodus, poised, confident, and unabashedly showing off for the crowd. It was disgusting to watch him blow kisses and wave. _Enemy_. _Kill_. _Die_. I stumbled towards him, willing my weakening legs to move. He waited for me to approach, then attacked.

He was an excellent fighter, strong, quick, and wily. I was weak, heartsick, and dripping blood by the second. The bandage was not sufficient to stop the flow, and blood was dripping down my back. In addition, I was so blind with anger and hatred of Commodus that it was difficult to think clearly. But even unwounded and unmoved by emotion, I would have had a difficult time fighting him. I was just barely avoiding his strikes, just blocking at the last instance, and just clinging to this side of victory. Soon the blood loss would claim its due, and Commodus would move in for the kill.

My opponent's face was twisted in that sneer that I knew and hated so much. His eyes were fastened on me, sensing my weakness and biding his time. I kept my face blank, willing him in, bating him. Then, I saw my opening.

The sword buried itself in my abdomen with a heart-rendering blast of excruciating pain and shock. My entire body spasmed, screaming at me to pull the glaidus out. A look of triumph crossed Commodus' face. Mustering up every ounce of courage and will in me, I reached out and seized Commodus' sword arm with a grip of iron. The exultation on his face turned to confusion as I pulled myself forward, driving the sword deeper into my body and myself closer to him as my sword arm swung around, straight for his exposed throat. In his triumph over making the killing blow, he had dropped his guard.

Commodus tore away from me in a rain of blood, his pierced artery spurting it out in fountains of red. _It's done_. I sagged to my knees, feeling blackness reach out to me, envelope me in its embrace.

"_Karou_"

Blinking in confusion, I tried to turn my head.

"_Karou, my love."_

Something red shimmered in the hot air. Violet flashed, then pink, then white.

"_Karou, come to me." _

My hand reached out. Something warm and callused gripped it. As this mortal world spun away and my spirit left its broken body behind, strong arms embraced me.

"_Karou, my love, let us live the life we were meant to live. Together." _


End file.
